


Secondhand smoke

by orphan_account



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 19:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10860198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It takes Clive a moment, but when it lands, he can't stop the smile that crosses his face."Oh, you bastard."





	Secondhand smoke

**Author's Note:**

> The f-slur is referred to in this fic but it's not intended in an offensive way, it's lighthearted teasing based around a pun off the fact that "fag" means cigarette

It's raining, that kind of bleak drizzle that seems almost constant these days. It clings to the streets every morning and fogs up the window of the taxi between the hotel and the studio. While they're taping the outside world may as well not exist. The studio is windowless, airless, the only hints of reality found in their brief breaks, taking a piss and then ducking outside for just long enough to share a cigarette. For a few precious minutes after they come back the air clings to their clothes, tied up in the smoke. Then Ryan swears, Colin trips over, Dan tells them to start the scene again, and Clive knows he won't be seeing that freedom again for a long, long time.

By the time they leave it's approaching midnight, and Clive is fairly certain they'll have to edit in some laughter in post to cover the snoring.

And it's bloody raining again.

Clive smooths down the collar of his jacket before leaving the dressing room, bumping shoulders with Josie and Greg as he does so. They tend to leave as a group to maximise the chances of finding a cab, and of course there's the added benefit of a couple of extra pairs of eyes helping to avoid Dan's incessant post-show analysis of every sketch. The trick is to leave late, or to be out the door before the credits have finished rolling. In a style of Clive's choosing, obviously. 

As they reach the door he changes his mind and pops his collar again in the hopes it'll offer a little protection from the weather. It probably won't. The three of them emerge into the chill more or less in silence, except for Greg, who gives a soft snort of laughter at Josie's exaggerated shiver. It's a companionable kind of quiet but to Clive it's somehow unnerving after god knows how many hours of noise and chaos. As they reach the edge of the car park Josie speaks and he releases a slow breath that's halfway to a sigh.

"I'll see you tomorrow, boys," she says, leaning up to kiss Greg on the cheek. He hugs her briefly. "Or today, rather."

"Don't let the slave-driver get you down, Josie," he replies, stepping out of the hug with a grin. "Either he'll quit with these long days, or we'll elope and start our own show. One where we don't have to stand in the rain if we want to smoke."

Clive nods his agreement, feeling the tiredness start to seep into him.

"God, I could use a fag."

Josie laughs as she hugs him goodbye, fleeting warmth in the chill air.

"You're out of luck there, Ryan and Colin already left."

He chuckles and pats her back.

"Lucky for some. Take care now," he calls after her as Josie starts to walk the couple of streets to her hotel. Lucky for some is right, Clive reflects; she'll probably be asleep before either he or Greg has managed to get a cab back to their respective hotels. The rain is getting heavier, too, which is just the icing on the cake. Hotel showers are the bane of Clive's existence, and he knows somewhere deep and instinctive that the hot water will be broken.

He turns around to share this complaint, expecting Greg to offer a sympathetic anecdote or a string of jokes like he does about almost everything, but instead he finds himself faced with an expression he's never seen on Greg before. He's got one eyebrow raised slightly, mouth upturned a little at the corners but Clive wouldn't exactly call it a smile. He frowns.

"Everything alright, Greg?"

The next few seconds- possibly minutes, Clive doesn't quite have the presence of mind to keep track- pass as a series of images, a skipping video out of sync with the sound of his heartbeat ringing in his ears. The first snapshot centres on Greg's smile as it comes fully into focus, closer than Clive thinks he's seen it before; and then something in his brain seems to switch off and by the time it catches up he has a hand in Greg's hair and his knees are threatening to go weak as Greg gently parts his lips. He wobbles and immediately Greg has a hand at his back, holding him up. This time Clive can _feel_ him smirk.

It shouldn't be attractive. Shouldn't be anything more than infuriating, the same way it is when Greg does it on stage after they've had to cut out yet another sketch and he knows now is the time to start making fun of Clive because he's just tired enough to bite. Shouldn't make Clive want to do anything other than roll his eyes and move on, and definitely, definitely shouldn't make him sigh and close his eyes and tighten his grip on Greg's hair like he doesn't want it to stop.

As the shutter clicks again, Clive decides that he definitely doesn't want it to stop.

Things come into focus once more when he feels the chill of a street light press into his back, Greg's hands migrating to his hips now, holding him there. He's not cold any more, not at all. The rain sparkles under the orange light, just like the tinted lenses in Greg's glasses.

Instinctively he raises an eyebrow when they break apart, ready to deflect whatever Greg says with sarcasm, ready to push aside emotion for the sake of a laugh. It's a tried and tested defence. Greg laughs, not fully moving away- no longer touching but still closer than normal, close enough that he'd jump away if someone saw them.

( _Or maybe he wouldn't_ , whispers a treacherous part of Clive's brain, _maybe he'd stay anyway, maybe he'll stay._ )

The laughter fades, Greg clearing his throat and reaching into a pocket to produce a battered cardboard box. His eyes shine as he flips the top open.

"Or did you mean a cigarette?"

It takes Clive a moment, but when it lands, he can't stop the smile that crosses his face.

"Oh, you bastard."

"I know Josie did the same joke, but I like to think I get points for style. But then again," and Greg's eyes flicker briefly down Clive's body as he speaks, strange half-smile back in place, "the points don't matter."

It's still raining. Clive still doesn't care, still caught in the strange laughing silence beneath the light, where Greg is laughing and his hand is still resting on Clive's hip, where the orange light is reflecting off his hair, unruly for the first time Clive can remember and he's thinking _I did that_ with no small hint of pride. Greg hands him a cigarette and leans in just slightly against him as they smoke, waiting for a taxi to finally arrive.

( _Maybe he won't pull away, maybe he'll stay._ )

It's hard to say how long it is before one appears, twin headlights winding through the dark and drizzle towards them. They climb in together, arms and legs in awkward fumbling proximity as they sit, and Greg leans forward to talk to the driver.

"Where is it you're going, mate?" asks the man. Greg gives him the address of Clive's hotel first and maybe he's imagining it, maybe he's just hearing what he wants to hear, but Clive could swear he hears Greg hesitate then. It's a second's pause but for a moment it threatens to swallow Clive whole. In that moment the cab becomes his whole world. Hyper-real somehow, like he can't imagine anything else existing beyond these cracked leather seats and a faintly unpleasant smell. Greg's jacket is catching the light and Clive can almost count the water droplets on it. The driver's face is in shadow but it's almost possible to make out his expression; an eyebrow raised, disinterested, fingers drumming on the wheel impatiently.

"That both of you?"

( _He'll stay..._ )

Greg coughs, not meeting Clive's gaze as he attempts to search out eye contact, confirmation, anything.

"Yeah," he says. "Thank you."

The taxi pulls away smoothly. As he feels Greg's hand hesitantly slide over his in the dark of the back seat, Clive decides that he doesn't mind the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no copyright claim on any of this


End file.
